The Colourless Crowd

Come, lean in because this is an extraordinary story. I will tell you a tale I once heard from a man who never painted, yet he knew all the world’s colours.

His name is Vrosly. He lived in the margins, a shadow among shadows, speaking in riddles and leaving questions in his wake. Some claimed he was one of the bald ones, though his head was always covered by a wide-brimmed hat that cast a perpetual shadow over his face. Others whispered that he had once painted the sky itself but had stopped for reasons no one could guess. Vrosly was not Resistance, nor was he an ally to the authorities. He was simply… there. Watching. Waiting.

Vrosly had a peculiar way of appearing when the world was about to change, and that night, he stood at the edge of the tallest skyscraper in Chromonos, a silent witness as Liora opened the vial. He said nothing, but the faintest smile curved his lips as the blue paint refused to stay on the sky. Vrosly did not laugh when the crowd stood dumb, unmoving, or flinching when Liora’s voice cracked with desperation. Instead, he leaned against the rail, arms crossed, as if the entire city below was a stage, and he alone held the script.

Once upon a time, in a city named Chromonos, the world was stripped of imagination. The skyline was a maze of grey skyscrapers, towering monuments to uniformity. The grey cemented streets echoed with the shuffle of people clad in drab, lifeless attire. Each citizen’s place was predetermined by the colour of their hair—blonde, brunette, black, red, or grey. Even the bald had a city section relegated to the shadowy prison district. Words for colours were forbidden, and the very concept of art was outlawed. The city authorities, cloaked in grey uniforms, ensured creativity was a crime, for they feared the chaos of imaginative minds.

Generations passed, and Chromonos forgot colour. People no longer spoke of rainbows, sunsets, or art. Even memories of such things had faded, leaving only a dull ache where vibrancy once lived. The city was orderly, predictable, and utterly devoid of joy.

In the farthest corner of the city, nestled against the prison wall, lived a girl named Liora. Her name meant “light,” though she barely understood its significance. Liora’s hair was a deep auburn, placing her among the workers, those who laboured tirelessly in factories to keep the city’s machinery running. Every day, she walked the same grey streets to her grey factory, carrying the weight of sameness on her shoulders. As she moved through the crowds, she often considered them “the colourless crowd,” their faces blank and their mechanical steps. They were a mass of grey, not only in their appearance but in their spirits. Liora pitied and judged them, believing their lack of defiance made them complicit in the city’s dullness.

But there was another group in Chromonos that Liora had always wondered about: the bald ones. They were whispered about with both fear and admiration.

It was said that the bald had once been daring artists, extracting colours from their own hair in secret experiments. Through weaving and dyeing, they had created forbidden artworks so vibrant that they glowed in the dark. But the cost of their defiance was their hair itself. They became bald, losing their hair and place in the city’s hierarchy. Now, they lived on the fringes, their numbers few, but their spirits unbroken. They were the hardcore of the Resistance—the daring, the bold ones.

Liora had never met a bald person until she joined the Resistance. The leader of the group, Aric, was one of them. His smooth head shone in the dim candlelight as he spoke with a quiet authority. “The authorities keep us in our sections, divided and grey because they fear what we could become if we united,” he said. “But a single stroke of colour can remind us who we are. It can shatter the walls of their control.”

Liora felt the vial in her pocket grow warm as if urging her to act. “I have paint,” she said, trembling but resolute. The group turned to her, their eyes wide with hope. Aric smiled. “Then you will lead us.”

That night, under the cover of darkness, they scaled the tallest skyscraper. The climb felt like a scene from an old fairy tale, as if they were scaling the mythical pole that held the world tree, Yggdrasil. Liora’s heart pounded as she climbed, clutching the precious vial. The city stretched below them, a sea of grey illuminated by cold, artificial lights. At the top, with the Resistance gathered around her, she opened the vial. The blue paint glowed faintly as if it, too, had been waiting for this moment.

But when Liora painted the first streak, nothing happened. The blue seemed to vanish into the grey sky, swallowed whole. She tried again, more urgently, sweeping bold strokes across the horizon. Still, nothing changed. Below, the city remained silent, the crowd gathering but not understanding. Whispers spread, but they carried doubt and confusion. People stared at the sky, but the colourless crowd saw nothing extraordinary; they had forgotten what colour was.

Panic rose in Liora’s chest. The Resistance members exchanged nervous glances, their hope wavering. Then, with a deep breath, Liora stepped forward, her voice trembling but firm. “You have forgotten,” she called out, “but the sky remembers! The blue is there; look, it’s there waiting for you to see it!” She tried to make them laugh with her witty remarks, clever observations, and vivid stories of the future. “If the stars could talk,” she continued, “they’d beg us to give them a sky worth shining in.” She paced, her voice rising with energy. “Every dull day is a blank canvas waiting for your courage to paint it.” She gestured at the grey crowd. “Do you know what the worst thing is about grey? It’s not even brave enough to be black or white!” The crowd remained still. Her eyes scanned the faces, searching for a flicker of recognition, but no one did, so she smirked and added, “Imagination is contagious; trust me, once you catch it, you won’t want the cure!” It remained utterly silent, the expressions of the crowd boringly dull. They did not understand Liora’s witty imagination, not yet.

Liora’s mind raced. Then Aric stepped closer and whispered, “The rhythm, Liora. Start with the rhythm.”

She nodded, unsure but determined. She closed her eyes, listening to the city around her. The factories churned with a steady, mechanical beat. The faint thrum of footsteps echoed below. The sound of breath and the heart’s rhythm created a subtle rhythm. Liora began to clap, then stomp her feet, finding a rhythm for her rap.

Slowly, she began to rap, first the rhythm, then her words weaving into the city’s pulse:

Boom sakka boom boom,

“Feel the rhythm, let it flow,

Wake the colours deep below.

Step and sway, break the line,

Breathe the sound; it’s time to shine.

Boom sakka boom boom,

Find the beat, escape the gloom.

Rise as one, hearts unite,

Paint the sky, reclaim the light!”

The Resistance joined her, their voices rising in harmony with hers. The vibrations spread, resonating through the crowd. At first, the people shifted uncomfortably, scratching their heads as if an itch had taken hold. They tugged at their hair, their eyes widening. The rhythm awakened long-buried memories, and slowly, their feet began to tap. Their bodies swayed, hesitant but alive.

Liora dipped her brush again and waved it, touching the sky. With each stroke, the sky trembled. The blue deepened, spreading like a wave. She painted streaks of gold, fiery reds, soft purples, and yellow. The colours shimmered, vibrant and untamed, creating a sunrise unlike any had ever seen.

At that moment, the world turned into something no one had words for. It was not just colour but the feeling of unbroken laughter, the rush of wind through a field, and the taste of ripe fruit under the sun. It was Kaleidra’s shiver of joy, the ache of beauty so delicate it opened the soul. It showed like a poem written on the skin of the sky. As the crowd gazed upward, trembling, they felt it, not in their minds, but in the marrow of their bones.

The bald ones stepped forward, their voices deep and resonant, adding a layer of rhythm that mimicked the hum of the city’s factories. They sang in a hauntingly beautiful harmony, weaving a melody that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the crowd. Their boldness and their sacrifices had brought them to this moment. As Liora painted, she realized the colours were from the daring spirit of the bald ones, their defiance now reflected in the sky.

The crowd’s movements grew bolder. They clapped, they danced, they laughed. For the first time, the city pulsed with life. The sounds of joy drowned out the sirens of the authorities.

Liora’s voice soared above it all:

“The sky is ours, it’s yours, it’s mine,

Break the grey; let colours shine!”

By the time the authorities arrived, the crowd was unstoppable. The rhythm, the colours, the connection, a force too powerful to contain. The officers froze, their grey uniforms stark against the vibrant sky. Even they could not resist the pull of the rhythm, the awakening of something forgotten.

She glanced at the bald ones, their heads lifted to the sky they had always believed in. She looked at the crowd below, no longer a grey faceless mass but vivid individuals finding their rhythm. She felt her own boundaries dissolve. In their awakening, she found her own. And the sky? It never forgot its colours again.

Andric van Es

Kaleidra: Vivid, boundless, imaginative beauty.